We’ve switched to a new email server at work. To make the transition easier, I’ve been cleaning out my old saved messages. Some go back more than four years and so it’s turned into a bit of time travel.

One folder is labeled “Dad Condolences.” I’d almost forgotten about it. With the fourth anniversary of his death on Saturday, I decided to take a look.

I’d forgotten how helpful the things readers wrote back then were, and still are, years later. People I didn’t even know were so kind. Those I did know added perspective. A few shared their own anecdotes.

The messages also remind me of how time moves on. People have left for new jobs, retired, etc.

I often think it would be a welcome boost to have my dad around for advice, just to hear his voice. These condolences turned out to be a pathway, because they trigger memories and qualities about him.

When you’ve lost someone, it’s soothing, even fun, to look at old photos. This ordinary snapshot has turned out to be a favorite, because it shows Dad in good form, in his 90s. The direct, confident look, right at the camera, reflects his optimistic, “make the most of every day” approach.

There are clues in the clutter in the room. The sticky note above the oven was one of his many daily reminders. The tea kettle that he used for breakfast and lunch. The coffee maker that kept me going. The do-dads hanging from the light fixture, with silly stuff we’d tie up there. On the dining server to the right, I can make out a snapshot from 1937 of my mother and him in a Woolworth’s photo booth.

The pill bottles on the dinette table remind me how he managed his medications so well for so long. The wall photo on the far left of a sunset over the Cape Cod Canal, a reminder of his trips to visit my brother and me.

As for the grief, readers advised: “It takes time. It gets better.” It did. It does.

I still have a storage room with his belongings, things I just couldn’t toss. His cap. His favorite sweaters. A coil of wire from his workshop. It feels OK now to start shedding a few. The clothes can be donated. The day books and journals, of course, I will keep.

I am also fortunate because my work taught me other new ways to keep the memories alive: I have columns I wrote and website videos that went with them. Many people, of course, have learned how to do this on their own, through journals and family projects, and I encourage more to try it. One of my favorite videos, filled with old photographs, runs with this column.

Page 2 of 2 - Here are a few of the condolence messages, in case they help someone else:

“I hope you share your emotions and memories of him down the road. Your dad seemed like such a character. Remember, Sue, to focus on what you had, not what has been taken.”

“You'll think of something and smile, giggle or laugh ... he is at peace.”

“My wife’s father is gravely ill ... where this will lead, we don't know, but we take comfort that he’s getting the best of care, and he knows that he is loved.”

“When my dad was dying, I marveled at how soft and full his hands remained, after his body withered away with cancer. After he passed, I could almost feel those soft, warm hands, around my own. That memory was a great source of comfort for me.”

“Those words may have been difficult to write. But I'll bet that in some ways, writing about the last few days in particular was therapeutic for someone like you. You’ve got wonderful memories to cherish.”

“Someday you will be able to pick up his picture without feeling such sorrow. I guess we can both consider ourselves lucky to even have these feelings. It means we had great parents.”

“I lost my mother and father recently, only 10 months apart, and your story made me stop and think again about my last days with each of them. How much I treasure those special times.”

Reach Sue Scheible at scheible@ledger.com, 617-786-7044, or The Patriot Ledger, P.O. Box 699159, Quincy 02269-9159. Follow her on Twitter @sues_ ledger. Read her Good Age blog on our website. READ MOREGood Age columns.